Companionable Silence
by Got Tea
Summary: After a dreadful week, Boyd comes to a realisation. Sequel to They Bicker.


Despite the fact that he has deliberately programmed the heating slightly higher than he, or indeed she, would normally, even at this time of year, keep it at, he wakes to a slight chill in the air. Of course, nothing is normal anymore; adversity has taken hold of their careful existence and turned it upside down, inside out and thoroughly shaken both of them out of their comfort zone, bombarding them with its terrifyingly harsh reminder that everything they hold dear can so very quickly just inconceivably and completely disintegrate around them without so much as giving them a single word of say so in the matter.

The chill might just be a matter of perception though, he thinks slowly, his sleep fuzzed brain sluggishly taking its time to catch up to the moment and the comfortable surroundings he has, very quickly and with a great deal of satisfaction, become accustomed to. Something to do with the gloomy, steel gray light forcing its way around the edge of the heavy drapes obscuring what he is sure will be another miserably dull and very cold December morning. Because, now that his thought processes are kicking solidly into gear, he observes that he is actually very warm and comfortable.

His mind wanders back to previous evening, and a slow grin spreads across his face as he stretches lazily, like a big cat stirring from a long nap under the summer sun somewhere out in the jungle. The post slumber aches suitably relieved from his limbs, he rolls onto his side to check on his bedfellow. Part of him, the small part of him that is very well hidden from public view and known generally only to her, is desperately clinging to the hope that today will be another good day.

Yesterday was a good day, an exceptional day really, under the circumstances, and they were both understandably simultaneously thrilled, comforted and entranced by the experience. It was the kind of day they are both currently living for; the sort that manages to, in its simple, but incredibly meaningful way, negate so much of the bad they currently find their lives mired with. And, he thinks, two good days in a row would be a sign, surely, that things are finally, _finally_, going their way.

But he knows immediately, the second his eyes fall on her still sleeping form, that today is not going to be a good day. And though he does not set much stock at all in religion, belief or higher powers, not after the kind of experiences he has been subjected to over the course of his long and storied career, both professionally and devastatingly personally, he immediately thinks something along the lines of a prayer that if it is not in the cards for another good day, then surely just a bad day is enough and not something worse. She doesn't deserve it.

It is not fair. He knows it's a childish thought, but he cannot suppress it as he watches her. She is curled in on herself, appearing absolutely dead to the world, so deeply asleep is she. And for a moment, he wonders if maybe this is his fault; good day or not, he shouldn't have let her wear herself out quite so much. But then he summarily dismisses the thought as his coldly practical side takes over and rationally reminds him of the facts. This is the way it goes. This is what adversity has unceremoniously dumped on them and left them to deal with.

That word. Six innocuous letters, used thousands of times a day in a plethora of other combinations, both written and spoken. But those particular six, five, actually, if he's going to be really pedantic, in that specific order, he cannot bring himself to say. Cannot, even, let himself think the word. Everything else that goes with it? Fine! He has become an expert at the related medical jargon, and he is exhaustively familiar with the treatment; what it is, how it works, and the devastating side effects he has been forced to watch unfold before his eyes. He has spent countless hours as a pillar of strength, holding it together whenever and however she needs him to, because in his book, there is no other choice. But he still cannot bring himself to say, or even think, that word.

Before this… happened… it was always her. She was always the one with the quiet strength. The one right there next to him, with the right words, the gentle, if not always agreeable, understanding, and the calm suggestions. The voice of reason, making sense of the world around them as he ploughed on through it all.

How she has managed all these years he hasn't got a clue. He knows exactly the extent of his reputation, knows it is well earned in virtually each and every aspect. He knows precisely how difficult he is guilty of having made her life on far too many occasions, and just how downright impossible to deal with he is when his temper flares or he gets an idea stubbornly stuck in his head.

And he is seriously beginning to wonder exactly how, and more importantly, why, she is still firmly beside him. Her commitment to him, and to what they do, astounds him exponentially the more he allows the train of thought to ride around in circles inside his brain. And equally so does the thought of exactly how much strength it must have cost her over the years to keep it up. And exactly how much emotional disturbance has been warring away behind that almost unshakable front of serenity they are all so accustomed to.

Because, now that it is his turn, and now that he is living this nightmare, suddenly, abruptly and, entirely willingly, self-cast into the role that for so long has been hers, he is finding himself totally and utterly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. All the time.

And he wonders, not just how the hell she managed it, but how he is supposed to, now that it is finally, and probably long overdue, his turn to reciprocate. And for that, he feels total, absolute, all-consuming guilt. But despite this, he has no intention of doing anything but continuing as he has since they started this journey together. He is not going to give up, no matter how bad he feels.

The physical side of it is much easier to manage; they go to bed early nearly every night, and despite the countless hours he has sat beside her, working his way through caseloads of paperwork he has previously only been accustomed to completing at his desk, well into the long, late hours after the rest of the team has dispersed into the night, when he does finally submit to slumber, he sleeps better with her curled beside him than he has done in years. And he usually wakes feeling rested, despite it all.

That feeling only goes so far though, and all the appointments and the bad days are beginning to stack up, creating an edge of exhaustion that is gradually creeping up on him, slowly but surely consuming a little more of him each day. He knows he can outlast it though, for he is far too stubborn to give in to a little tiredness, particularly when the stakes are this high. Physical weariness is an inconvenience, but he will merely continue to brush it aside for as long as he needs to.

No, the true exhaustion is emotional, and that is what is truly wearing him down. The endless worry that is plaguing him, that has been working its way steadily and ever deeper into every pore, fibre and molecule of his body ever since Eve, all those months ago, dropped the bombshell on him up in that tower in the middle of the case that he wishes he could erase from the history books entirely, leaving behind no trace of its existence. He can still recall with astonishing clarity the stunningly cold way terror immediately gripped him at those words.

The way time seemed to stand still for just a small handful of seconds while Eve quietly and remorsefully explained to him exactly why Grace wasn't returning his phone calls. He remembers grabbing her hand and staring into her eyes, willing it to be a mistake, or a colossal wind-up, but knowing instantly that it wasn't. Never for even a moment did he doubt Eve, or the expression of grief and anguish in her face. And that was the instant he knew, that whatever it took, whatever it meant, he would do anything and everything within his power to help. Because there simply was no alternative.

He has never done anything in his life by half measures. He might be well known for diving impetuously into a situation, but he has never backed away from anything he has committed himself to. It drives others to distraction, and it has even, on too many occasions probably, driven her past the point of distraction too, but it's just who he is. It's how he operates. And in that moment of pure fear and dread, he knew, with absolute certainty and clarity, that is was high time the pair of them drew a line under their dance of years and accept the inevitable, because they were both going to need it.

And true to his nature, he was very nearly just as blunt explaining it to her in the aftermath of all the disaster that unfolded around them. Her kidnapping, near murder and the sickening, twisted horror of that a-life-for-a-life situation the pair of them had found themselves in. His fault again. He should have listened to her. Next time he _will_. Because the guilt of not listening to her, and what he so nearly brought down on them… well, he never wants to feel like that again. Ever.

Years of gravity tugging, pulling and pushing them in the same direction, and the continued crashing and retreating of their respective equally stubborn personalities had left them both with the certain conclusion that eventually, at some point in the not too distant future, they were destined to end up together. Some things are just meant to be, a fact which neither of them would dispute. But sometimes, even though the inevitable is just that, an inevitability, merely waiting for the most opportune moment is simply not enough and outside forces have to find their way into the equation and act upon it like a catalyst.

And that, he took extraordinarily great pains, incorporating much uncharacteristic patience, to explain to her, is what had happened in their case. And both of them would just have to accept it. And, a lot stunned, and a little disbelievingly, she watched as he marched his way firmly, in that refreshingly, brazenly confidant way of his, into her life and stayed. Years of gently drifting slowly closer and closer, and then the sudden swift push of outside adversity and that was it. Reality redefined. For him. For her. Forever.

Looking at her now, he bites back a sigh of pure frustration and slides closer, gently wrapping her against his chest. He curls his head forward, tucking it into the back of her neck and pressing his lips to her shoulder, taking the time, as he does every morning, to thoroughly appreciate and revel in the fact that she is still there with him. He can't remember the last time she woke before him, if ever, and it has become a ritual for him to snuggle her into his arms, close his eyes and try his hardest to imprint into his soul the feel of her, the smell of her and the pure joy of having her there with him.

She has become very happily accustomed to waking in his arms; the sleepy, slightly tearful expression in her eyes the first time it happened is indelibly etched into his mind, as is the way she stared up at him for a long, long time, wordlessly telling him a great many things she hadn't the strength, at that point, to articulate any other way.

It is also his way of reassuring himself she is indeed still with him. More than once he has woken up, disorientated and confused, wondering if, for a few absolutely heart stopping moments, she was there, but not there. Gone. Always on night's following the worst kind of day, when she's been so weak, so ill, that his subconscious has played the sort of evil trick on him that has left him gasping for breath and fumbling for the bedside lamp, just to watch the slight rise and fall of her chest, desperate for the reassurance that she's still breathing. Still there. Still with him. Still his to love, and care for.

It doesn't help that after the second cycle of treatment, ten days into the window of greatest risk, he sat up in the middle of the night to find her unconscious, blazing with fever and so full of infection that she was rushed back into hospital, all because of a cut barely the length of an inch on her palm where she'd fumbled a knife while slicing an apple. Eight days in hospital, the first two on a ventilator, while her devastated immune system was filled with antibiotics to fight the raging contagion trying its hardest to do what the chemo and disease had, thankfully, so far been unsuccessful in achieving.

The whole episode had scared him more than it had her. While Grace was too drained and all together weakened by the whole ordeal to do anything more than sleep once she had come home, his imagination had gone into overdrive at the slightest cough or sniffle. It had taken him weeks not to have to fend off the potentially overwhelming panic if she so much as sneezed. As it was, with her white blood cell count so low and the lingering effects of the infection dragging her wearily down, the third cycle of chemo had been delayed. Another thing to churn, troublingly, around inside his head. If the treatment was delayed, did that mean the wretched disease was gaining ground inside her body? Sometimes he wonders how he hasn't altogether lost his sanity to the sheer overwhelming number of things he worries about.

He can feel her breath ghosting across his arm as she exhales, and that pulls his out of his murky, depressing thoughts. Firmly back in the here and now, he concentrates on her. She is still deeply asleep in his arms; she didn't so much as twitch when he moved beside her. He can tell, from the stillness of her body, the pattern of her breathing, and depth of her slumber, that she isn't going to have another good day today. It's a weekday, which means work for him, and so he quickly runs through the mental checklist of everything he needs to do beforehand.

One of the hardest things he has had to learn to deal with is leaving her alone. He can't stay with her twenty-four hours a day, and most of the time she doesn't need it, because there is very little mischief she can actually manage to cause by herself, especially on days like today. She rests a lot, and she reads a lot. Mostly she can't be bothered with television; there's very little broadcasting during the day that is worth even thinking about. She likes the radio though, and music.

More than once he's come home to find her drinking suspiciously coloured and scented tea while playing the kind of far out crap he's always thought the listener needed to be under the influence of a hefty dose of LSD to appreciate. He once made a comment about expecting to find a marijuana joint stashed under the coffee table too, and she had merely smiled up at him from the sofa, reached for his hand and pulled him down beside her, observing quietly in his ear that she was perhaps a little old for that sort of thing now.

Now?

Propping himself on his elbows, he had been about to ask her to expand on her statement when she had smiled in that staggeringly, disarmingly, and thoroughly distractingly serene way of hers before kissing him softly. That had been a good day too. Not quite as truly great as yesterday, but still nice. And enlightening.

The absolute worst thing though, is the silence. The vast majority of the time they have been spending together lately, she has been so thoroughly depleted, run-down and absolutely, bone achingly exhausted that their conversation is, simply because of her physical state, reduced to mostly only the bare necessities. He hates it. Passionately. It bothers him more than anything else they have had to endure.

Because even though he has always maintained that she talks far, far too much, and uses an inordinately large amount of stupidly long and complicated words, he is, quietly and secretly, utterly intoxicated by the sound of her voice. And that is why days like yesterday are so special to him. Days where hints of who Grace truly is shine from beneath the devastation of illness and remind him why he is so determined to get her through this.

He is unquestionably going to have to move at some point, but for the moment she is just so warm and real in his arms that he cannot stand the idea of letting go of her. His thoughts now roaming the collection of very enjoyable memories they have shared, he allows his lips to gently wander the contours of her uncovered shoulder. His light touch won't wake her, but it's enough to fill his nose with her scent and make his body feel very pleasantly warm and relaxed, something he knows won't last long at all once he gets into the office.

…

He's right, and within an hour of the start of the working day he has spectacularly lost his temper, Spence has retreated from CCHQ entirely, on the pretext of checking with their crime scene's local nick, and Kat has vanished into the lab, desperately hoping Eve will have something with which she needs help. Which leaves only him, sitting alone in his office and staring through the window into hers, the anger still bubbling ferociously under the surface. It's not fair. His thoughts from earlier come back to haunt him and he scowls angrily before picking up a stack of reports and carrying them through the door. He settles on her sofa, pen in hand, and begins his methodical task of reviewing and signing, his fury slowly abating.

He gets home at a reasonable hour; no one was in a hurry to stay late today, not when her presence was so acutely missed after the previous day. He has a briefcase of work with him as he enters the house, but it's nowhere near as overstuffed as it usually is, because, perhaps as much for the sanity of his team as for his desire to leave as soon as possible, he has spent the day shunning his normal action favoured approach to policing and kept himself busy with everything else that needed catching up on, letting Spence, Kat and Eve loose to roam the city and gather the evidence they were looking for without him. He wonders briefly if he is getting old, and then swiftly dismisses the idea. He just has other, much more pressing, priorities right now.

That thought makes him smile as he searches quietly, quickly finding her in the kitchen. His first thought is that she seriously understated how rough she really feels during their multiple text exchanges throughout the day. She's leaning heavily against the counter, eyes closed and head resting wearily against the cabinets while very slowly and listlessly stirring a pot of sauce.

"Grace," his voice is deliberately soft, but she jerks out of her exhausted trance anyway, only just managing not to spill the beginnings of their dinner. Her eyes fleetingly have that deer-in-the-headlights look of someone thoroughly and abruptly startled out of their thoughts but she recovers quickly, though her free hand still moves to press against her ribs as she draws in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry," he says, stepping right up to her and sweeping her tight against his chest.

She almost tumbles into his embrace, her body resting heavily against his, as though he has taken the place of the counter in holding her upright. She's extremely pale, and breathing a touch quickly too, which automatically makes him wonder if there is anything out of the ordinary wrong with her. He's running through what he thinks is a surreptitious check of her condition when he feels her smile into his shoulder, scuppering any illusions he may have had.

"I'm just tired," she assures him, quietly but seriously. "I couldn't sleep today, at all."

"Are you sure?" he probes, because he has to ask, needs to be absolutely certain. Still holding on to him with all the remaining strength she possesses, because she will undoubtedly topple over otherwise, she leans her head back and looks up at him, a small but honest smile curving across her lips and seeping from her eyes into his. One arm firmly wrapped around her waist, because he is just as aware as she is about her current ability to remain on her feet unaided, he lets the other roam up her back, across her shoulder and over her cheek as her happiness keeps spreading until he is smiling back at her.

He kisses her, tenderly, and altogether too briefly, but very lovingly nevertheless, before pulling back to gaze down at her again.

"You need to sit down," he informs her bluntly, "before you fall down."

"I know," she sighs, with a hint of resignation. "I just wanted to do _something_ useful. I've accomplished absolutely nothing today," her tone moves much closer to plaintive and irritable as her sentence concludes. He hugs her tighter for just a moment, before easily moving her into a chair beside the table.

"I brought you something to read," he tells her, fishing a file out of his case and handing it over. He glances around for her reading glasses, and finds them on the counter. Her smile is back and she opens the pages, sliding her specs into place so she can study this latest suspect's particulars and offer an opinion. "I'll be right back," he promises, before turning the sauce down to low and hurrying upstairs to change into more comfortable clothing.

She's interested in the file, he can tell. Can see her mind working as her eyes move across the words printed on the standard issue reports and documents the team have amassed. But by eight o'clock she is almost asleep in her half eaten dinner and it is past time to call it a day. He clears up quickly and efficiently, and then helps her to her feet. She stumbles, not altogether aware of her surroundings, drunk on exhaustion and thoroughly uncoordinated because of it, and, not for the first time, he gives up on a lost cause, scooping her easily into his arms and carrying her upstairs to bed. She sleeps like the dead, but it is in no way refreshing.

…

The next morning is much the same. She doesn't see or hear him leave, and it's nearly lunch time before she calls to tell him she's awake and has managed a somewhat reviving warm shower. She's dressed, made it downstairs and eaten something. He listens very attentively as she tells him she's curled in the armchair with his file, determined to finished reading it, but he can tell, as he searchingly discerns from her tone every detail of her condition possible, that she will inevitably succumb to the need for a nap soon enough.

And that's exactly where he finds her when he gets home. Still curled in the armchair, her glasses in danger of slipping off the end of her nose, and the file tumbled out of her hand and onto the floor as she snores faintly, shivering slightly despite the heavy blanket tucked around her. Getting her to eat anything is going to be a nightmare, he muses.

He slumps onto the sofa opposite, wondering exactly how much longer this can go on for. How much more can she withstand? How much longer can he keep going? The anger is back, boiling fiercely through his veins as he wrestles with the lack of something to lash out at. This festering, invisible disease is slowly but surely driving him mad. He can't help her, can't make it any better for her, and he hates it. She's suffering silently, every minute, every day, all the time and he's so, so ragingly furious about it.

That phrase keeps running through his mind, uninvited. It haunts him. _It's not fair._ It sounds so childish, but it's not, is it? Because this really isn't fair, in any way, shape or form. It's a giant slap in the face to two people who have spent so much time doing so much good. And he wants to rage and swear and throw things until this giant cosmic mistake is somehow rectified.

As it is, he's slamming his fist repeatedly back into the sofa cushions beside him, but it does nothing to alleviate the swirling storm brewing inside him. Wracked with fury and grief he looks up at her, just in time to watch as she shifts slightly and her glasses finally tumble from their very precarious perch, bouncing into her lap and bringing her into very sleepy and tousled wakefulness. She sees him and smiles, and though her face, totally unintentionally, tells him just how bad the day has been for her, it's the most beautiful thing he could ever imagine and just like that he's calm again.

…

It's a terrible night, which he knows all too well is a very bad omen for tomorrow. She's horribly nauseated before they even make it up the stairs, and wakes multiple times, sick to her stomach and on the verge of tears, shivering uncontrollably despite his body heat warming her. This is a stage he thought they had finally finished with a couple of weeks or more ago now, and in the end he gives in to what seems to have worked best on nights like this. He runs a warm bath and settles her in it, changing the sheets quickly and easily before chucking the old ones in the washing machine and returning to sit with her for a while.

She doesn't complain. Hasn't; not once in the entire brutally enduring saga. He wishes she would. He's awed by her quiet, gritty determination. Even on the very worst of days, when the effects are unspeakably bad and she is so beaten down she looks a hair away from leaving him forever, her persistence is daunting. She's said nothing about it, just carried on with everything, one day at a time. He wondered for a while if she thought he would think less of her, if she were to complain about her situation. That's not her style though. No, she has her eyes firmly on the prize at the end of the long, long road, just like he has. His promise of forever. And if he ever thought in the past she was a tenacious, stubborn and iron-willed opponent standing squarely in his way, he knows now that that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Sitting beside the bath, holding on to her hand and watching her force back the tears threatening to overwhelm her, he is once again stunned by her. Battle weary and on the verge of collapse, long past the point of extreme exhaustion and vilely sick too, and she still won't give in. He doesn't think he could love her any more if he tried. It fuels his determination. His desire to help her get through it. Whatever it takes.

The morning is as brutal as the night was before it, but when he leaves for work she's dressed and downstairs, contemplating whether or not it's a good idea to eat her breakfast, or if she's tempting fate and all too likely to see it again very soon. In the end, she tries her hardest but is soon regretting the decision as the somewhat abated nausea returns full force and not too long later so does her soggy cereal. Disgusted, and thoroughly dejected, she forces herself to clean up before staggering into the living room and sliding unceremoniously onto the sofa, pressing her face into a pillow. If she lies still enough, there's a distinct possibility she might start to feel even the slightest bit better.

…

"Have you eaten anything?" he asks her when they talk at lunch time.

"No," is the hesitant reply. She knows he will not be happy about it.

He rests his head in his hand, his elbow propped on his desk as he leans heavily forward and forces himself not to sigh in frustration. He's not upset with her, only the situation.

"Is it that bad?" he asks, his mind casting back over their mostly sleepless night.

"Yes." Her tone is slightly muffled by the sofa cushions.

"Do you want me to come home?" he offers.

"No," she takes a deep breath and makes him a promise. "I will try and eat."

"Only if you can," he replies. He hates seeing her struggle with the nausea and sickness; it's so much worse than the exhaustion and everything else she has suffered through. He doesn't know why, just that it leaves him full of guilt and despair that he can't make it stop.

"I'm so tired Peter," she mumbles, and he can tell she's on the verge of falling asleep. They talk for a moment more, before the conversation ends and he knows with weary resignation that lunch isn't going to happen. She's either going to fall asleep and stay that way, or forget as she loses track of time and just drifts until he gets home. It happens repeatedly when the days are this bad. He has become accustomed to it.

A tap on the closed door makes him look up from staring pensively at his phone; Eve negotiates her way inside without waiting for a response from him, and despite the two cups of coffee and the file she has in her hands, somehow manages to open the door, move past it and close it again behind her easily and without spilling a drop of hot liquid. It's a trick he has seen Grace employ more than once, but one he has never mastered the art of accomplishing himself. Maybe it's a woman thing.

Eve hands him a mug before taking a seat and sipping deeply from her own brew.

"I thought you could probably use it. You look a little… rough around the edges." He regards her carefully. Eve is frighteningly observant, but she's also very kind, extremely trustworthy and the only other person here who knows about his secret.

They have never discussed it, any of it, the two of them, but it is a tacit agreement they have that if he needs help, she is more than willing to do whatever she can. Eve and Grace have grown very close over the last few years, and he suspects she is a lot more worried than she has let on.

"A bad few days," he admits to her and Eve nods in understanding.

"I did wonder, after Monday," she acknowledges calmly, "but it was so nice to see her enjoying herself." Eve's nearly perpetual composure seems to evaporate slightly though, and he can see flashes in her eyes of a tangle of emotions that are warring just below the surface. She's very worried. And more than faintly distraught by this whole saga.

She has very little family, he thinks he remembers. Not really anyone close, mostly just a handful of distant relatives. Rather like Grace. The pair of them hit it off from the start of Eve's tenure at the CCU. Despite the fact that they were all still reeling from the loss of Mel and Frankie, and then by Felix abruptly leaving after such a short stay, Grace was thoroughly intrigued by Eve from the moment she arrived.

"Is there anything I can do?" He shakes his head.

"No," he answers, honestly. Eve quietly studies him for a moment before handing over the folder, her expression sliding back to the focus he is used to seeing whenever he sets foot in her lab. He truly appreciates it. Gently and unobtrusively willing to listen and help, she won't push him if he doesn't want to talk.

"Ok. Final toxicology results for Mr. Walters. A rather interesting mix." He flips through the pages and reads, eyebrows twitching as he takes in her conservative statement regarding the blood chemistry of their victim.

"Oh. That's… different!" Eve can't quite manage to suppress a smile.

"Yeah."

…

He almost falls over her as he searches the house frantically, worried when he doesn't quickly find her in any of her usual haunts. She's lying on the floor at the foot of the sofa, and it's only because he's seen this before that he doesn't panic. Resting on her front, with a pillow under her head, she's very definitely asleep, though probably far from comfortable.

The first time he found her like this, he almost had a heart attack from the shock and it took a long, long time for him to calm down as she explained, far too calmly and rationally for his frayed nerves to like, that every time she moved, the sofa moved too and the result was something very horribly similar to seasickness. The floor, she told him, as if it was the most logical conclusion in the world to come to, was very solid and very still and the fact that it was definitely, dreadfully uncomfortable was not something she was all that bothered by, as desperate as she was to relieve the nausea by any means possible.

Now though, despite the warmth of the house, and the blanket loosely draped over her, he discovers she's absolutely stone cold to his touch. Alarmingly so.

"Grace?" His tone isn't abrasive, but it isn't gentle either. She mumbles something he has no chance of deciphering. "Grace! Are you still feeling sick?" He's firm and pressing, because he'll be damned if he's going to let her stay on the floor a moment longer than necessary.

"No," is the eventual, meandering answer.

She's too cold. Far, far too cold.

"Can you stand?"

Not a chance. She doesn't hear him. He's not sure she even knows where she is. Or that he's there with her. The sofa is closer, but the bed will be warmer. And a lot more comfortable too. He can feel the tense cramping of her muscles and grimaces. She isn't going to like being moved, but she will be much more comfortable once she's warm and relaxed. As carefully as he can he picks her up, but she still lets out a shrill cry of pain as her tense, chilled and inactive muscles start to spasm.

He moves as quickly as he can, throws an extra blanket over the bed and peels off his suit before climbing beneath the covers and wrapping her firmly against him. His body heat will do the trick; compared to him she is very small, and this isn't the first time he's warmed her up this way either. Ignoring the uncomfortable chill of her skin against his, he carefully massages the muscles in her arms and back, working out the cramps. And even though the situation is far from ideal, the way she's curled into him is very agreeably comforting. So agreeable in fact, that before long, and without any conscious thought about it, he slides effortlessly into slumber too.

It's gone nine o'clock when he wakes, ravenously hungry, deliciously warm and extremely content. Looking down he finds those stunningly blue eyes staring up at him, a little hazy with the remnants of their long nap, but never the less calm and composed, despite the more than slight amount of confusion resting there as her mind wanders, trying to connect the dots that don't seem to be in any way consecutive.

"I don't remember coming to bed," she says finally, and he can tell she is definitely perturbed by this knowledge, something he takes as a good sign.

"I'm not surprised," he intones lazily, tightening the arm that is still wrapped around her so that she is tucked snugly against his chest. Her skin is very pleasantly warm now, and she fits so comfortably against him he doesn't think he'll ever want to let her go.

"Why?" she is suspicious, something else he takes with good meaning. He moves slightly so they are face to face and stares into her eyes, very serious now.

"Grace," he sighs, reaching out to stroke her cheek with a tender hand before continuing. "I love you very much," she raises an eyebrow that is just beginning to grow back, now even more wary of what he might be about to tell her.

"But?" she prompts, eyes narrowing slightly.

"But I want you to promise me you won't take a nap on the floor again unless you wrap up like an Eskimo first." She considers him thoughtfully and he can see in her gaze exactly the moment when she realises what happened.

"Oh," she utters, the single syllable very quiet and unusually drawn out.

"Indeed," he nods, wryly.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she tells him guiltily.

"I guessed as much." His hand has moved idly to her shoulder, and he is reminded of how tense her muscles were earlier. "How are you feeling now?"

"I've had better days," she shrugs but doesn't elaborate further. And then her expression brightens considerably. "But I'm actually hungry." He can't help the laughter that escapes and she grins at him, tilting her head to give him a very soft kiss.

"How does some soup sound?"

"Very safe," she tells him, not wanting to take a chance with anything more substantial. Out of bed and halfway dressed in old, well-worn and very comfortable jogging bottoms and a sweater, he passes her the thickest pair of pajamas she owns and her dressing gown.

"This feels like we're embarking on some sort of illicit midnight feast," she remarks, feeling rather amused as she considers the peculiar way the evening seems to be going. Shoving his feet firmly into his slippers he shakes his head in silent laughter at her strange, but accurate enough, observation. And then she stands up, and all the levity abruptly vanishes.

"Oh dear," she mumbles, wavering on her feet as the sweeping surge of vertigo hits and suddenly she is stripped of her bearings and centre of gravity. Eyes tightly shut, she fumbles for the bedside table, needing the reassurance of its solid immovability, but instead he is right there, his immediate grip on her arms careful and gentle, but still firmly grounding her.

"I think this is going to be a midnight feast in bed," he observes and she agrees, but first a trip to the bathroom across the hall is in order. A normally simple task that has unexpectedly, and inconveniently, become much more complicated they both very quickly discover, because when she tries to walk, she's surprisingly very uncoordinated and unsteady. She makes it there and back, but not without leaning considerably on his broad, solid strength. Neither of them says anything, but as far as the list of side effects go, this is definitely a new one. Out of breath and exhausted from the short trip, Grace lets him help her back into bed yet again.

…

As Fridays go, this one is shaping up to be complete bollocks, he thinks, irritably riffling through the contents of his in-tray in search of the file Kat has faithfully promised she left there, but magically seems to have vanished into thin air. There's a commotion in the squadroom, and he glances up in time to see Spence and some courier toting a large box collide despite Kat's shouted warning. The courier, the box and a full mug of fresh coffee go flying. Taking a step towards the door to check everyone is in one piece, he feels, too late, his jacket sleeve snag on something and a second later papers are floating everywhere, the in-tray has bounced off his big toe and he is grinding his teeth together so hard he can feel his jaw creak.

It's a very good job they both slept well last night; he can only imagine how badly frayed his temper would already be if he was tired as well as seriously vexed, and it's barely ten am. He takes a moment for a handful of, supposedly calming, deep breaths- they seem to have become one of his best friends of late- and then reaches for his mobile to text her. Plenty of sleep they may have had, but she was still a little dizzy and shaky on her feet this morning, and it's left him feeling decidedly nervous. New side effects invariably always do, until he becomes accustomed.

By the time lunch rolls around, every single one of them is struggling to contain their tempers. Their chief suspect has vanished into thin air, another three overstuffed boxes of information have been unearthed and sent over to them by someone, somewhere, who, in addition to obviously having far too much time on their hands and not enough work to fill it with, suspects, increasingly more rightly it seems, that another case, even older and more gruesomely obscure that what they are currently wading through, may be connected to their present work load. And if that is indeed correct, which they are all beginning to suspect Eve will certainly have proven fact before the end of the day, then their thus far carefully constructed timeline will be blown to dust, and quite possibly so will the painstakingly established point that their suspect has no alibi.

The mounting frustration is very, very palpable down in the basement. No one is making idle chatter; in fact, no one is talking unless they absolutely have to and it is moments like these when he, and indeed every single one of them, misses Grace the most. Misses her for her calm smile, warm presence, and uncanny ability to raise the general mood and moral whenever things get tough.

Grace. If only he could look into her office and see her sitting there behind her desk. His heart clenches for a moment, and he glances reflexively at the mobile phone sitting, silent and inert, on the desk in an increasingly ominous way. He hasn't heard from her today. At all. Not even a single text, and he's now quite a way past beginning to feel suspiciously uneasy and is firmly rooted in the belief that something might be seriously wrong. It isn't yet time to completely panic, but he's unquestionably heading that way.

He picks up the offensively silent mobile and calls her. Once, twice. No response. The same with her landline. It's definitely time to go and check on her. She's probably just asleep, but he is now desperate for the reassurance. He's just reaching for his coat when his office phone rings.

…

"Eve," he rushes through the lab doors like a tornado, lab coat forgotten in his haste. Eve stops and stares at him, expression mild despite the intended rebuke concerning his attire that dies on her lips as she takes in his very harried movements and slightly wild eyes. Typically Boyd, he leaps right in.

"I need a favour," he says bluntly. The pipette that previously stopped midair during his dramatic entrance is slowly lowered back to the table.

"I haven't proven anything yet," she tells him calmly. "But I have got the DNA result that you wanted yesterday; it's a match to someone, but the file is blocked." That sidetracks him for a moment.

"That explains it then," he muses to himself. She's looking at him, one eyebrow firmly arched in solemn curiosity. "I've been summoned," he tells her quickly. "Immediately," he adds, and his impatience and irritation are extremely evident.

"So this favour?" she prompts.

"I can't get hold of Grace. Nothing, all morning." Reflexively, Eve strips off her gloves and pulls her phone out of her pocket to check it, though she knows full well it is a pointless exercise. She has heard nothing today either, despite the fact that she and Grace chat nearly every working day around the time Eve takes a morning break for coffee and a smoke.

Eve doesn't hesitate. Nothing she is working with right now is time sensitive and, just like Boyd, she knows it's probably nothing to worry about, but it could be something, and if that is the case, then the possibilities are… frightening.

He pulls his keys from his pocket and detaches one from the collection, handing it over.

"Don't bother ringing the bell," he tells her. "If she's asleep, odds are she won't hear it."

"Ok," nods Eve as they exit the lab. "I'll call you."

"Thanks," he sighs, watching her hurry away down the corridor.

…

It feels strange, opening the door and walking, uninvited, straight into Grace's home, but Eve pushes her unease aside as other, far more difficult, emotions well inside her. It's very warm inside, and dim. A quick, sweeping glance tells her that the curtains are closed against the weak December light. She wonders if Grace is suffering from photosensitivity. There's no sound either; no television or radio. That's strange; when they talk, the radio is invariably playing softly in the background.

"Grace," she calls into the oppressive silence. "It's Eve." There is a slight scuffling sound emanating from the living room, and Eve moves quickly to the doorway. Grace is standing halfway between the sofa and the door, one hand clutching her head and the other thrown out to the side for balance. Her eyes are unfocused and when she takes a step forward, she lurches heavily, staggering as she struggles to remain on her feet. Eve is there in an instant, steadying her, holding her firmly upright.

"What's wrong?" she asks quietly, calmly assessing the situation. Grace just blinks at her, and Eve isn't at all sure she's understood the question. She about to suggest moving back to the sofa when Grace tries to take another step and groans, pitching forward. Automatically, Eve locks her legs and leans slightly into Grace as she supports both of them. Her arms wrapped firmly around Grace's waist, Eve half carries, half drags her back to the sofa before yanking the curtains open to flood the room with light.

What she sees isn't promising. Grace is very pale, shivering and visibly breathing with difficulty. Her skin is cold and clammy under Eve's gentle fingers. Looking at her watch, she times a pulse that is far too fast and confirms her visual appraisal of respiration. Then she calls an ambulance and returns to her exam.

Eve doesn't frighten easily, she never has. Even as a child she was the sort to befriend and take home the playground rat instead of running screaming to the teacher. Her work, both on the job and off it, is mired in the unimaginably gruesome and the shocking brutality of destructive human interaction. None of it fazes Eve. What does cause a prickle of fear though, is the way Grace looks so… weak. Wholly and completely drained of every last spark of quiet but steely determination and sheer stubbornness that Eve has watched her throw right back at the equally willful, obstinate and notoriously prickly Boyd on so many occasions.

The pair of them make a perfect match, she thinks. Though how, now that they are romantically entangled, some of their more epic disagreements will end once Grace has recovered Eve really doesn't want to think about. She can see though, precisely why Boyd is so protective and determined, and why, when he burst into her lab less than an hour ago, underneath the brisk assessment of the situation and request for help, she saw a very real hint of fear. She's never seen Boyd actually panic, but the anxiety in his eyes seemed awfully close to bordering on full blown alarm.

Looking at Grace now, she can see exactly why. She appears to have deteriorated immensely and rapidly since Monday and for a moment Eve feels close to tears. The dead are so much easier to deal with than the living; so much easier to detach from. And the way the woman she has come to regard as a very close friend refuses to respond when she calls her name, implores her to wake up, makes Eve's heart twist with apprehension. With her lips grimly pursed, Eve peels back an eyelid to check pupil response before rechecking heart rate and respiration.

"Come on Grace," she mutters, beginning to suspect what the problem is, but still wanting to see those blue eyes open and focus. It seems a long and interminable wait, but by the time the paramedics arrive, Grace has regained consciousness. The news isn't reassuring though. She is confused and struggling to talk. Her chest hurts, and she's overwhelmingly dizzy, despite sitting still with her eyes closed. She holds onto Eve's hand all the way to the hospital, resolutely refusing to let go despite fading in and out of the drama surrounding her.

…

Walking out of his meeting with the Met higher-ups and a rather frosty member of the Security Services he distinctly remembers at some point in the past hoping he would never have to meet again, Boyd casts aside his frustration that their case has just become exponentially more complicated and reaches into his pocket for his phone, realising that it's much later than he expects. He's missed three calls from Eve, and when he listens to her message, he thinks his heart might actually stop this time. It surely cannot take any more crushing blows.

"It's anemia," Eve immediately tells him when he very nearly crashes into the treatment room. "It's serious, but not life threatening yet. She's going to be ok." He stops just shy of colliding with the bottom of the bed, one hand raking through his hair in sheer desperation as he stares at Grace, tiny and ashen, and once again hooked up to all the leads, tubes and wires. He can't say anything; the intensity of his lengthy and argumentative meeting followed by the horror of Eve's message and then the mad dash over to the hospital suddenly all catch up to him, momentarily overwhelming him and rendering him speechless and stunned.

Eve gets to her feet and, somehow managing to keep her hold on Grace, who, despite being firmly asleep, has yet to let go of the hand she so determinedly clung to in the ambulance, edges her way close enough to him to reach out and rest a hand on his arm.

"Boyd," she says firmly, determined to get his attention. He glances at her, still shaken, but his eyes focus clearly at her insistent tone. "She's going to be ok," Eve insists. "They did a complete blood count; her hemoglobin is a seven. That's why she collapsed, and why she's dizzy and very tired. A normal level is between twelve and eighteen."

"So what happens now?" His eyes are back on Grace, and his heart is thudding wildly in his chest as the familiar fierce rage threatens to rear its angry head once again. This is so wrong. She doesn't deserve this. It is absolutely, categorically not fair.

Eve's steady voice brings him back.

"They're giving her a transfusion; red blood cells. It will make her feel better fairly quickly."

"And long term?" Eve shrugs slightly, still unperturbed. A good sign, he surmises.

"They're running tests, and she'll be monitored to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Is this because of Monday? If I'd made her slow down and"

"No," Eve interrupts him firmly. "This happened because of the chemotherapy. She's dehydrated, and she hasn't been eating much either, am I right?" At his nod, she continues. "That definitely doesn't help, but this is not because Monday was a good day. Don't go there Boyd, you couldn't have done anything. It just happens sometimes. "

He swivels his gaze to look at Eve. Really look at her. Calm, intelligent, methodical, trustworthy Eve. She's staring back at him, her gaze as steady as he's ever seen it. She's telling him the truth. He knows it, and he's incredibly grateful for it. For her. For everything she's done. And especially for how much she cares. But just at this moment, he really needs to sit down and take a deep breath. Maybe several.

…

"How was the meeting?" Eve eventually asks. She has retreated to her chair, Grace's hand still gently linked with hers, while he has settled on the other side of the bed. He is absently stroking his fingers across Grace's cheek as he stares down at her, his eyes dark with the tumultuous emotions churning there.

"Hmm?" he glances up and Eve holds back the smile she feels at his blatant preoccupation with the woman lying between them. Eve has known, since her very first meeting with the pair of them, that Grace and Boyd are destined to be together. Everything she has observed in the last few years has merely reinforced that original belief. And her initial happiness, especially for Grace, at learning the two had finally taken that leap together, has only grown over the last few months. Grace deserves it. Boyd does too. And the way he is looking at her now warms the corners of Eve's heart that are brushed with the cold mist of years of death.

"The meeting?" she reminds him and he grimaces in response, remembering the furious argument.

"We are not to go near Price. He is not a suspect."

"According to who?" Eve is just as affronted as he by thought that their investigation is being hampered.

"MI5," he replies grimly. Eve's eyebrows knit together in a scowl. "It gets better," he tells her, his voice soft, lest they be overheard. "The reason we can't find Williams is because he's currently a protected witness waiting to testify in what I have been _categorically informed_ is a completely unrelated trial."

"Categorically informed?" Eve's expression makes him laugh, his gloom lifting. "So now what?" she wants to know, more than a little peeved. Boyd shrugs.

"So now we're stalled until we get through all that boxed information."

"The coffee covered stuff Kat has me drying out from this morning?"

"Yes."

"It'll take days to get through all of that."

"I know," he is exasperated, but it's tempered with preoccupation as he stares at Grace again, his heavy concern not quite successfully masked. Eve can see the stress radiating from him, and with it exactly just how much he worries and cares. He needs a break or he's going to crack. Big, strong, extraordinarily tough man he may be, but everyone has a breaking point and he's fast approaching his. She wonders if he will listen as she makes an attempt at advice.

"I'm going to make a suggestion; take a couple of sick days, make it a long weekend, and just spend some uninterrupted time together."

"I can't do that," he protests wearily, "it's"

"Morally wrong?" suggests Eve, with a knowing nod. "Normally, I would agree, but you can't take holiday with such short notice, nor can you explain to anyone else why you need a few days off, can you? And you just admitted that the case is going nowhere until Spence and Kat get through all those files. So, in this instance, I think a bout of food poisoning is justified."

"Should I be worried by the ease with which you seem able to plan the evasion of work?" he wants to know, an eyebrow arching in interest as he studies her. Eve's laughter is heavy and warm.

"I'm married to my job Boyd, and you know it. We're all as bad as each other." She holds his gaze for a long moment. "Grace has had an awful week, and so have you. You need to relax," she informs him bluntly. He's smiling now, but he hasn't agreed with her yet. "Do I need to remind you that I'm a medical doctor, and despite the fact that I deal with the dead, I am more than capable of recognizing stress and burn out symptoms in living people?" she demands, refusing to give in.

Boyd is looking down at Grace again and he sighs heavily, his heart twisting at just how fragile she looks, tucked securely under the stark white sheets as she is.

"No, you don't," he says softly.

"So I'll see you on Wednesday then," she prods, because she's damn well going to make sure this discussion is properly finished before she lets go of it.

"Maybe even Thursday," he shrugs, "depending on how bad I feel, of course."

"Very good," she nods, and feels herself relax with the weight of his agreement. Grace is starting to stir, and she shuffles closer in case her friend is still disorientated, confused and in need of reassurance.

Boyd casts a glance at her, and she can see quiet clearly that he is now grinning mischievously. It is an expression she has seen before, usually preceding some sort of mayhem. Her suspicions are confirmed when he asks, slowly and easily,

"So, what do you think I should have for dinner then?"

…

It's late on Tuesday afternoon and he's comfortably reclined along the length of the sofa, with a book in one hand telling him all about the generals of the Crimean War and his other arm curled tightly around Grace, who is lying sleepily between his body and the cushions, her head resting on his chest as she hovers somewhere in that comfortably embracing not quite awake but not still soundly asleep in-between world. Abandoning the book onto the coffee table, he traces his other hand up her arm and over her shoulder in a soothing caress, remarkably content to remain quietly still and just watch her, take in her wonderfully close proximity and reflect on exactly how grateful he is to be able to have such a moment with her.

Outside of the charging, relentless, chaotic frenzy of work and the office, he is, at home, much calmer and quieter; keenly lazy, even. Indolent. Idle. Laid back. Prone to relaxing easily, deeply and happily. Especially with her. And after the hellish week culminating in the unexpected, and thoroughly alarming, trip to hospital, the quiet solitude of the weekend has, he thinks, been wonderfully welcome. So it was yesterday too. And today. Tomorrow probably will be as well. He's spoken to Spence; it will take at least another day for him and Kat to finish working their way through the boxed chaos of files.

Eve was very definitely right; food poisoning was absolutely justified. Any slight twinges of guilt he feels at bunking off work in such a devious manner are far overshadowed by the knowledge that he has always committed far too many hours to the CCU anyway, and that he will inevitably slave away, undoubtedly long into the small hours of the morning, for days in order to catch up when he returns.

Glancing down at the woman who is currently very drowsily snuggling her face into his neck he feels those vestiges of guilt promptly evaporate, and grins contentedly as he silently thanks his pathologist friend and colleague yet again. Grace's fingers move lightly across his chest and she hums almost inaudibly, eyes still firmly closed, mind still lost in lethargic, dreamy oblivion.

She is still overwhelmingly, devastatingly, continuously exhausted, but the red blood cells have done their job, and now when she sleeps it is beginning to resemble something akin to restorative rest. There is more colour in her skin, and she looks healthier already; her eyes have lost some of the dull, flat fatigue and a hint of that wickedly mischievous twinkle he loves so dearly seems to be gradually returning. He isn't naïve enough to think that this is it, and she is finally on her way to totally recovered health. A couple of units of someone else's kindly donated red blood cells are not the magic cure he has wished for more times than he can count. But with any luck, there won't be any more chemo, there won't be any more gut wrenching new side effects and there won't be other emergency trips to the hospital that leave him breathless and gasping with fear he's not altogether sure how to deal with.

There will be more tests. Many of them, quite possibly for the rest of her life, and the accompanying uncertainty of the interminable wait for answers each and every time. He hates waiting. Always has. Supposes he always will. But waiting, he knows, it much more preferable to watching her suffer. If he has to spend the rest of his life searching, digging and dredging up the patience every time there are test results to wait on, then so be it. He _will_ find a way. But if there was anything he could do to hurry along the first set that haven't even happened yet, and find out if it has all worked, if the hell she's been put through has been sufficient, he would do it. Anything at all.

Right now he suspects she isn't really thinking about it. She's been too ill, and too miserable, despite saying nothing and uttering not a single complaint. All of her energy has gone into simply getting through one day at a time; just surviving. But he has thought about it. All too often, and all too increasingly as they trudged their way, thoroughly battered and worn, through the last cycle. He suspects it has become something of an obsession, but the not knowing is driving him insane. If he could just get the answer this time, he will spend the rest of his life in pursuit of that elusive patience.

Her voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he glances down at her, his fingers tightening automatically against her, unconsciously holding her just that little bit closer.

"You ok?" he asks softly, twitching the blanket that has slipped off her shoulders back into position. She sighs happily against him and he feels her lips momentarily brush lightly against his neck.

"Mmm," she mumbles, languidly and warmly. "I love you Peter," she tells him, and her voice may well still be hazy and thick with sleep, but her message is as real as it ever gets. He knows it, he knows it very well. As if the psychologist in her takes longer to return to reality post dreaming than the rest of her, just woken Grace is always very peaceful, honest and unfiltered. And, he has observed, quietly open to suggestion too. A fact he has filed away for future reference. Quite possibly illicit and wickedly entertaining future reference.

His answering smile is deep and far reaching. Twisting his head slightly, he kisses her temple. Slow and lingering.

"Love you too," he whispers against her skin and he can feel her smile against his skin.

His hand moves from her shoulder, sliding slowly up her neck until his fingers run gently, tenderly though her hair. It's very short, a scant half inch, if that, and yesterday she made a wry comment about looking like a buzz cut footballer, but he likes it. Short it may be, her hair, but it is outrageously, ridiculously soft. It doesn't look it. Not at all. In fact, it looks like it should be bristly and spiky, but it isn't. And he can't keep himself from running his fingers though the impossibly short but softer than silk strands. Especially when she has forgone the usual scarf for the duration of their lazy few days together, the pair of them categorically refusing to leave the house or do anything remotely energetic, instead content to luxuriate in each other's uninterrupted company.

They stay there for a long time. He watches the shadows on the wall change and move as the weak December light begins to wane into evening, and then extinguishes completely as day surrenders into night. They say very little, remaining comfortably entwined together on the sofa; she dozing lightly, on and off, and he thinking.

He thinks about the sound of her voice, and how intensely grateful he was when she opened her eyes on Friday evening and looked up at him from the hospital bed, his name falling softly from her lips. He's wrestled with the strange quiet of illness for months; felt robbed of her voice in his ears as she succumbed to the near silence of exhaustion. The sound of her voice, that exotic, enticing drug he has coveted for years, despite his many and frequent protests that she talks far too much, is still as addictive as it ever was for him. Even more so maybe, now that it is a lot less frequently heard.

They have always argued. She has always talked. So has he really, although perhaps a lot less volubly. He of the short, sharp sentences, the wild exclamations and fitfully exuberant shouting. She of the educated, long and convoluted explanations. The appallingly big words he sometimes wonders if she makes up right there and then, purely to irritate him. It's who and what they are. It defines them. It always has.

The quiet is new. But then, so is the intimate turn their relationship has taken. Maybe it was always inevitable, but this closer union is still relatively new too. And he wouldn't trade it for the world. Perhaps that's a sign, he ponders, that not everything new is bad. Perhaps that means the silence is, on balance, not a bad thing either. He thinks he is slowly coming to another realisation.

The weight of her against his body is warm and soft and reassuring. So incredibly right. Just at the moment, he wouldn't trade his current position for anything. Or hers. And the silence that goes with it. It's not harsh and oppressive, like her illness. Like that tiny, six lettered word he still can't bring himself to think, or speak. No, the silence is warm and calm. It's radiates peace and tranquility, just like she does, tucked serenely and easily against him. It isn't forced or uncomfortable. It's mutual and it speaks of things understood by both of them, things implied and things that need no speaking of. It is companionable; it is relaxing and it is loving.

He lets out a soft sigh as his thoughts finally resolve themselves and a kind of internal peace descends in their wake. He feels her smile again, and wonders, not for the first time, or even the last he is sure, if she has seen right through him and has some inclination of what he has been musing over. The silence is as unnatural for her as it is for him, but she seems to be adjusting well enough. Perhaps he is too.

It's late, he thinks idly. Soon they are going to have to move and turn the evening in the direction of dinner. But for the moment, he can't quite bring himself to point this out. He's too warm, and too comfortable, and far, far too absorbed and captivated in the feel of the woman lying in his arms. So he says nothing.

...

...

A huge thanks to everyone who read and reviewed They Bicker. I hope you all enjoyed this one just as much.


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